


Seven After

by kintsugi (beta_wooper)



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Gen, Native American/First Nations Legends & Lore, Pokemon Fanfiction, References to Iroquois Mythology & Lore, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25097128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beta_wooper/pseuds/kintsugi
Summary: You are Kawisenhawe, who knows seven times seven lifetimes. When they ask, you will answer.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9
Collections: The Zoroark Games - Summer 2020





	Seven After

**Author's Note:**

> Content Notice  
> Contains references to death/gore and torture.

Your eyes crack open. Hot. It’s hot. When did it get so hot?

Your hands are tied above your head. You’re standing with your back contoured over what feels like a pillar. Something is crusted around your right eye. Salt and iron mingle on your lips.

“This one.” Someone grabs the hair at the top of your forehead and jerks your head upward. He bares your neck. You bare your teeth. “Will she replace the one that you lost?”

You remember now. Someone screamed too late to warn you. You ran out of the long house. The moon was young but their torches made it easy to see. You screamed. Also too late. Strong hands. They were careful not to harm as they tore you away. You fought.

The fist tangled in your hair doesn’t loosen when you struggle. Instead you look down over the swells of your cheeks. The man standing tall and defiant in front of you wears a belt knotted with shells. He’d be young for a father and there’s no mother at his side. This must be a widower. He lost someone and you will replace her. This is the way of the Five Nations. If you were killed instead of captured your father would do the same for you.

“Kawisenhawe had eyes like ice,” he says. Impassive. “She was marked by Kyurem. This one has eyes of mud. She will see nothing.”

Your skull throbs around your eye socket. Sweat mixes with dried blood and runs down your cheek. You roll your tongue across your gums. Something breaks off. A molar. They must've struck you when you fought back. The mourning wars require living captives. If they lost someone as important as her they probably captured many more in case the first replacements were unsuitable.

You spit the tooth at him and croak, “She was poorly chosen if she died so young.”

There is a torterra inked across his chest. The creases of his muscles form the ridges of its shell and they ripple when he laughs. “You may lack her eyes, but you have her fire. You’ll do.”

He pulls a knife from his belt and cuts you down. Your knees are unused to supporting your weight. The twist out from beneath you. Blood returns to your hands. The pain comes with it. You want to scream but—you can’t.

Focus. Now. You retake your feet. Widower watches you stand. He wraps an embroidered blanket around your naked shoulders. You clutch it gratefully. Beneath its folds you squeeze it so tightly that you can feel your nails stab through the fabric and bite into your palms.

Fingernails.

Akwirente screams. They rip his fingernails from one of his hands. The other arm and both his legs are strung up uselessly on his post. His throat is raw but his face speaks for him. You wear the colors of your new clan and walk behind Widower and don't look back.

Eyes up. Do not flinch. He and you shared a hearth once so he should know better than to expect mercy from a mourning war. The woman at his side is old enough to have lost a daughter. If Akwirente cannot replace the one she lost, then he will be her vessel for grief.

Widower is watching you. “This one will likely die.”

A test. He wants to see your response. Too sad and he’ll assume you’re disloyal. He might bind you or break your leg so you don’t try to run away. Too disinterested and he’ll assume you’re lying. Then he might cut out your tongue so you can’t poison his ears.

Heart thudding, you say, “Then tonight I will watch for him on the starry trail.”

Did you answer right? He twists the skin of his face into a smile. It isn't kind. “Tonight you are free to do as you wish. Tomorrow you are Kawisenhawe.”

*

Among the Five Nations no decree may be made without first considering its effects on seven generations. This was the declaration of the Dragon Twins at the beginning of the world. Their words have guided your people for seven generations and many more.

To consider seven generations you must know seven times seven lifetimes. You are Kawisenhawe. The one before you was Kawisenhawe. The one after you will be Kawisenhawe.

Among the Five Nations no two people may hold the same name. For as long as the earth has been kissed by the sun there has been a Kawisenhawe to serve Kyurem and preserve the record. Leaders from all the Five Nations will consult you when they want to make a decree. Kyurem will give you the wisdom of infinite lifetimes to answer them.

Two walk north. One returns. The other is Kawisenhawe.

Ya-o-gah, the first beartic, must be prowling in the sky. The north wind rages against your furs.

It’s cold. You’re cold. Soon you’ll never feel cold again.

Okwaho laughs and sings you stories as you walk. He was always a good faithkeeper. Even though you’ve heard it a thousand times he still chooses the song of Hi-no the Thunderer who rescued his wife from the Great Serpent.

The rhymes are familiar to you. A moon ago you may have joined Okwaho’s song. You always loved the part where Hi-no strung his bow with lightning to shoot down the twisting gyarados.

Today your stomach twists too much for music. Okwaho was always a good faithkeeper. It’s easy to keep faith when no one else has it.

The two of you crest the final mountain and the Starchild’s Cradle stretches before you. Even though the wind howls and throws snow in the air, you can see the array of fallen trees along the furrow. All the trees point one way.

The Starchild fell here from the night sky. The Dragon Twins emerged and gave light and darkness to the Five Nations. An empty husk remained in their egg. One day Kyurem will hatch and bring an end to the world. Until then she will offer wisdom to the Five Nations.

Okwaho walks with you to the entrance of the pit. “You must make the rest of the journey alone,” he says.

You nod. This is goodbye. When you next speak to him you will be Kawisenhawe. If you ever speak to him again. Faithkeepers rarely consult Kawisenhawe. He keeps the faith. You keep the legends.

It’s somehow colder inside. Kawisenhawe sits cross-legged in the center of the chamber. A ragged shawl with a torterra woven in black and green is draped around her shoulders. Her hair runs like a silver waterfall down her torso and across the ground.

“You come alone and you’re too young to seek my counsel,” she says. Her eyes crack open to reveal a milky sheen muddled with brown, like ice over mud. “So my time is come.”

You wordlessly bow your head.

“You should talk, girl. It’ll be the last time you’ll be able to do so as you are now.”

Your jaw locks up. “Will it hurt?”

“For me? Yes.” She scoffs. “For you? Immensely.”

Right. Take it in. you nod even though you want to pivot and run out of the cave. As far north as you are, they’d never find you. Probably. Okwaho would tell the others. They’d hunt for seven days. If they didn’t find you they’d find another. Okwaho has sharp eyes. He’d find you. Then they would—“Do you regret it?”

“My life’s duty was to walk with gods. Tonight you’ll see me on the starry trail. I leave nothing behind.”

When you take her place the leaders from all Five Nations will seek you for wisdom. You. You, who have seen fifteen summers. “Did you always know the answer?”

“There is always an answer. You will find that out in time. It may not be the right one.”

“Is Kyurem kind?”

Kawisenhawe chuckles. Her silvery hair hangs down in her face. Her hands are rooted to the floor in blocks of ice. “No, but nothing is.”

A lump forms in your throat. Your questions run out. Your mother’s hands shook when she pressed her belt into your hands. She’d cut and dried and stitched the sawsbuck hide to make a belt with the pokémon that guarded your clan. You imagine her wrinkled hands harvesting beads and shells to thread into its tassels. The sawsbuck in his four coats runs around your waist.

You won’t see her again. You clench the tassels in your fist and descend to the bottom of the chamber.

The cave rumbles.

 _No_.

You stand firm.

_Yes._

One leg shakes. Something inside of you breaks. Something outside of you cracks. Kawisenhawe rips one hand free from the ice and reaches out towards you.

 _No_.

You extend your hand. Her fingers clasp around your wrist. She is cold. So cold.

 _Yes_.

You’re screaming. She’s screaming. You feel like your voices are being ripped from your chests and twisted together.

 _Hello_ , _Kawisenhawe_.

A third voice. It does not scream. It roars... It’s cold. Immense. It smashes through your mind. Empty. It echoes throughout the entire cave. Okwaho must hear it. Cold. So much cold.

 _Kyurem_.

Kawisenhawe falls to the ground. The ice crawls up her body. She becomes a muddled brown smear covered in a milky sheen. Cataract eyes. They’re open as she stares at you with her mouth frozen open— _Goodbye, Kawisenhawe_.

Kyurem is everywhere. The icy chamber is full of color now. You sense the great dragon’s presence beneath you, curled deep within the meteor.

You fold your legs on the ground. It feels almost natural. You place your palms face down on the sheet of ice. It growls and then roots itself over your hands and into your veins and along your cheeks.

It isn’t cold. Nothing is cold now. Nothing will be cold ever again.

*

You are the next Kawisenhawe, offered from the ursaring clan. The times are peaceful. The Five Nations conduct their mourning wars but their numbers neither swell nor grow.

No one consults Kawisenhawe. You live and die in the Cradle and the only people you see are the old Kawisenhawe and the new.

*

Two chieftans from the bibarel and heronami clans approach you. You remember the war they started when you weren’t Kawisenhawe. Their waists are studded with knives. The bibarel chieftan has an empty quiver on his back. The heronami chieftan walks with the delicate, thin-legged grace of his clan’s namesake.

“Kawisenhawe.” They greet you in unison.

You keep your neck high while they bow. Your beloved gave you a feather necklace before you went north to become Kawisenhawe. He chased a heronami and asked them for a gift as beautiful as the one he loved. It weighs heavy on you now, even though it’s lighter than air.

You sense the heronami chieftan’s eyes on it. “You kept it,” Tier says.

“I am Kawisenhawe.” The one Tier loved is dead. You hope he found another. “What is your question?”

“I am Otetiani.” The bibarel chieftan straightens himself. “The heronami and arcanine chieftans allied against us. They attack the bibarel and the sawsbuck clans.”

Of course they do. What does he expect? The bibarel clan is growing soft if they would journey to Kawisenhawe for this. “Mourning wars are the way of the Five Nations. The earth grieves, and her children grieve with her.”

“They do not attack for mourning,” he says. “And some of us they shoot and kill.”

Your head flicks to Tier. “Explain.”

“Foreigners came onto our lands. They want the bidoof pelts and offer us great riches in exchange. We hunt them from the lands to the north, away from the Five Nations. The bibarel clan seeks to stop us.”

“Our totems are not for the paleskins,” snarls the bibarel chieftan. “Not even the kits. When the paleskins get what they want they’ll devour you next.”

A threat? You raise one eyebrow but don’t interrupt.

“If we give them what they want, they will leave their settlement by the thundering river. The heronami will nest and replenish their numbers.”

“They will devour you next,” repeats Otetiani. “Us and our totems, and then you and yours. Heronami will be extinct from this world before ten more suns.”

 _That_ sounds too much like a threat for you to let it stand. “Enough.”

They both bow their heads.

You look at Tier. “You will strike peace with the foreigners and the bibarel clan. You may fight outsiders but if you war within the Five Nations we will be torn apart.” So much conviction in your words. So much doubt in your throat. You hope it’s buried deep beneath the ice and none of it slips out. “The fledgling heronami will return with the Harvest Festival as they always have.”

“But—”

“Embrace one another and tell your clans to do the same. If anyone disagrees let them take it up with Kawisenhawe.”

They leave. Their words linger with you all winter. The heronami have lived in the waters for as long as the Five Nations have walked the earth. No pokémon would ever just disappear like that. And in ten suns? No. Otetiani is a fool and a fearful one at that.

*

You were from the arcanine clan. Now you are Kawisenhawe.

“Will you give us your blessing?”

The children of the Five Nations are gathered shoulder to shoulder in your chamber. You would join the war cry with them if you could. Your heart swells with pride. You haven’t seen this many gathered since… you don’t know when. Your forehead quirks. Doubt? No. Impossible. There are so many warriors here. More than you have seen in your entire life(s). They will succeed.

They will fight. They will exact their revenge and replenish their ranks. The ones they capture will see you again one day. You slowly bend your lips into a fierce smile. “Kyurem will watch over you. Be valiant. Defend our home.”

It’s no war speech and you were never a good orator. As long as you are who you are it doesn’t matter, because you speak for Kyurem and Kyurem’s words are enough.

The festival goes long into the night. They dance and sing and offer you food and drink. You watch the performances but Kawisenhawe needs no sustenance. Regardless. It is a good offering.

At dawn, they leave. They have a long march.

Kyurem rumbles. Your gut twists. For some reason the pride goes sour in your mouth.

*

Two make the journey to Kawisenhawe. They walk with heavy footsteps that echo against the ice.

“I am Otsitsa, and this is Wári.” Both of them bow low. “We are clanmothers of the torterra and the sawsbuck clans.”

For clanmothers they’re poorly-dressed. There’s no rich embroidery on their clothes or jewelry at their throats or piercings on their skin. If they hadn’t introduced themselves you’d have thought they’d stumbled here by accident.

“What is your question?” you ask archly.

Wári straightens herself and speaks. “The Unovans have called a peace talk with those of the Five who raised arms against them. They told us we must go west.”

Of course. That was how it went even when you weren’t Kawisenhawe. “How far west?”

“Where the Twisting Cave touches the Gyarados River.”

You haven’t been outside of the Cradle for many suns. It takes you a moment to recall the land. “That’s… west of here.”

“Yes,” says Otsitsa. “If we accept, the Unovans will have the Cradle, and many lands besides that.”

You consider. Beneath you Kyurem seethes.

“They will never have the Cradle.” You must clarify that first. “No outsiders will.”

Otsitsa nods hurriedly.

“But—” You tilt your chin up to stave off any rebuke. Not that they would interrupt Kawisenhawe. “I understand. Can you fight them?”

“We don’t think we can.”

“If the Five Nations fought as one, we’d have seven hundred warriors,” Wári says.

“The arcanine and bibarel clans have already begun the march west,” Otsitsa adds. “They won’t join the call. Even if they did, the Unovans number in the thousands.”

You make a clicking sound with your tongue. They wait for you to compose your thoughts.

“Osehadagaar, the eagle, is wise,” you say slowly. “He doesn’t listen to every call but instead knows his power and waits. Only when the droughts are too severe for Hi-no the Thunderer and Ga-oh the Windseeker does Osehadagaar emerge with gentle winds to call up the dew of life.”

Wári’s face flickers.

Otsitsa exhales heavily. “Very well, Kawisenhawe. The torterra and the sawsbuck will join the rest.”

“Osehadagaar will return one day.”

“One day,” Otsitsa promises. There’s a mix of solemn resignation and anger.

Wári locks her jaw. “When I die, let my name die with me, Kawisenhawe,” she hisses when she’s halfway to the exit. “There are more names than children in my clan now anyway.”

*

You had a name. You grew up in Icirrus. You were one-tenth (?) native. On your mother’s side. Supposedly. It was good for college applications and bad for the rest of your life.

You had a name. Now you are Kawisenhawe. They took you when you were ten. Now you’re twelve.

Best not to think of Before.

This is Now. You woke up in Giant Chasm with a dragon in the back of your mind.

The days blur together. You do not need to eat. You do not need to sleep. You exist in a hazy space between waking and dreaming.

For a while you expect no one to come. When you were snatched it was a dangerous time. Maybe there’s peace now.

He arrives alone in the middle of a blizzard so harsh that the winds snarl around your chambers. You straighten your back and prepare to answer his question.

“I’m here for Kyurem,” he says.

That’s… not a question.

The dragon in your head bellows. The ice beneath your frozen feet trembles. You translate. “Kyurem is no prize to be won.” You survey him. Kyurem looks through your eyes. Green hair. His cloak is ceremonial. Too shiny to be fur. Too black to be dyed. The eyes he has embroidered on it belong to no clan that has ever come to Kawisenhawe.

“The native peoples of the north spoke of three signs that would portend the ending of days.” Cloakseer ignores you. His eyes are fastened on the slumbering dragon below. “Poison will coat the seas. Spiderwebs will cover the land. Then ice will consume the skies.”

Kyurem roars. You both know the legends. You are the legend keeper. You do not need his lecture. You—you will tell him what Kyurem wants. “Kyurem will offer violence at the end of days. Until then you will receive only our wisdom.”

“Conquerors came with great ships that poisoned the oceans. Over the dead natives they built stone spiderwebs for their motorized wagons. The end of days is here. I’m here for Kyurem.”

“Kyurem will not fight for you,” you say confidently.

The dragon in your head is quiet. Considering. You see seven more generations play out. All suffering. All slaughtered. Whose hand did it? Cloakseer? Or the Conquerors?

Cloakseer can sense the turmoil, you think. He looks to the ground instead of at you when he speaks next. “I know the legends, Kyurem. I have seen your siblings. I do not care for the future they have charted. I prefer your way instead. Let us wage war on those who have harmed this world.”

When they put you here the ice crept over your arms and legs and you couldn’t move no matter how much you tried. You still try now. You need to shake your head and scream. Scream! This man lies. He offers false legends to Kyurem.

Your mother whispered stories when you were young. The conflict split the Starchild into three but the peoples of the earth came together as one. They formed the Five Nations. They charted the Great Law of Peace on the day that the moon devoured the sun. Many became one.

You twist all of this into a thorny knot and fling it to Kyurem as hard as you can.

For the first time Kyurem speaks to Kawisenhawe in words:

{Foolish child. You used to be great. Now all you do is prattle what your elders told you that your betters accomplished. You and yours have forgotten your greatness.} The mental image of a woman screams as a warrior rips out her fingernails. {Do you even know how you came to be mine?}

You rack your brain. Your mother told you. You think? It’s hard to tell and Cloakseer is staring hungrily at you and Kyurem’s presence rages like a blizzard and… and. You don’t know.

{I thought so. Your people have forgotten me. You will fight him, Kawisenhawe. This shall be our mourning war. If you win, we will stay. If you lose, I am his.}

The ice releases you and you find yourself on your hands and knees. Red light flashes. Lightning? No. It’s over too quickly. You look up. Three heads. A field of teeth. Scales the color of clear skies. You haven’t seen the sky since—it doesn’t matter. Distantly your brain finds a name. _Hydreigon_. You read about these in one of your classes from Before. Your book said the best advice was to hope it finds more interesting prey before it has time to kill you.

You swallow. Your throat is dry.

You’re no warrior. You never were. You turn to Kyurem. “Please. Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar.”

Out of the corner of your eye the hydreigon fires off the biggest dark pulse you’ve ever seen.

You scream. Duck. Not fast enough. Orange light now. Your legs feel like they’re on fire. Might be literal. You don’t look down to check. Your knees give out anyway. The ice around you is melting. You shiver.

Your mother always said you were blessed to sense the future. When this fire goes out you know the rest of the world will freeze. Cloakseer will make that come to pass. “Please you can’t, shit fuck please please you can’t you _can’t—_ ”

The last word comes out as a scream. Legs. Definitely on fire. Incomprehensible prayers to every god your mother taught you slip from your lips. Your fingernails bleed from where you try to claw yourself forward on the frozen ground.

The ice sheet between your prison and Kyurem’s drips away.

Kyurem was many things across the generations. She was never kind.

The impassive eyes of a predator spear through you and pin you to the ground.

Cold. It’s cold. When did it get so cold?

The last thing you feel is the ice crawling over your face.


End file.
